“We had so much to talk about, so much we wanted to know about each other. I barely noticed that we were going the long way around, that we were miles outside of town. Finally he pulled over and turned off the engine. At first we just looked at each other without saying anything, then we both burst into laughter. I was suddenly self-conscious and couldn’t think of anything to say. He touched me the same way again, and I let him do it. I wanted to feel his safe, warm hand one more time. I remember wondering where it would lead. But it didn’t scare me—it was as if I was watching myself from outside. All my defence mechanisms were down and I let it happen—what happened next.”

A young mother with an empty stroller stopped on the path in front of them. A little girl wandered around on the asphalt path before falling over and getting up. She then came toddling at full tilt towards Jeanette, who received her with open arms to stop her from falling over. The child laughed, as did Jeanette, but the mother didn’t look happy. She brusquely picked up the girl, put her in the stroller and hurried off. The child protested loudly, and Jeanette followed the stroller with her gaze. Once they reached Skolportsgatan the wet wipes came out—that was how low she had sunk: people had to wash once they had touched her.

She took a swig of beer and lit a new cigarette using the last one, before continuing.

“We continued seeing each other two or three times a week. The time between our encounters felt unbearable. For both of us—at least he had me believe that. The Christmas holidays got in the way, but I worked as many of the days in between as I could in order to have the chance to see him. He did the same.”

Jeanette took a long drag from the cigarette and looked at Nanna discreetly to see whether she had lost interest. Nanna caught her looking and gave her one of her rare smiles.

“I’m listening,” she said, draining what was left in the can.

“Okay,” said Jeanette, drawing breath. “Then it was back to normal—grey and sad and January. I started thinking about what I wanted from the relationship. But there wasn’t much to ponder over—I was prepared to leave my husband and all of the worn-out, done to death conversations that our life had become after Charlotte. But I didn’t dare take the first step, I wanted to hear him—Peter—say it. He did too, but not straight out. It was wrapped up in questions and assumptions about how our life together might look. I was on my guard: he had a wife and children, and I could imagine how hard and trying it would be, to break away from a life like that. But not how it would reflect on our life together. Would our love overcome all those obstacles, spiteful ex-spouses and sad and perhaps angry children? Neither of us earned much—would we be able to afford to live in acceptable conditions? Especially with two shared kids on top, which required at least one extra room and costs that went up every year. Was the thing that had emerged between us merely the result of curiosity or would it last the course through all the setbacks and disappointments that the future was guaranteed to bring? But we were pushing in the same direction—I was convinced of it. Despite having only known him for a little more than a month, I was prepared to give up everything I had for him. If only he said the right words—first.”